


i'm not there

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Child Abuse, Hermaphroditic Trolls, Human families sure are weird!, Illustrated, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Sober Gamzee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trailerpark is no stranger to crime but one in particular strikes a little too close to home for Karkat's comfort...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

==> **Present Karkat: Wake the fuck up already**

You drift out of another nightmare. They seem to be compounding lately since your fertility cycle began. You had to turn up the sopor concentration in your recuperacoon to cope.

Sleeping dry isn’t helping the situation either.

You hear shouting and profanity outside, which is honestly the bland elevator music of the mobilehive park. Still, it’s worth checking it out. The last time there was a scuffle, Meenah was chasing Eridan out of her trailer and threatening to turn him into swiss cheese if he didn’t stop trying to flush her daughter. The cops and press showed up thirty minutes late so they only had footage of Eridan up a tree with Meenah still trying to jab him.

You get off of Strider’s bed and walk out of the room. Strider is at the window, pushing a row of blinds open with his left hand. He blows a low whistle.

“Man. Didn’t know Cronus would ever pick a fight with Kurloz. Why is he even doing that? Kurloz never so much hurts a fucking fly.”

“What in fuck are you talking about, Strider? They stamped all the anger out of Kurloz the second time he went to jail.”

You walk to the window, nudging him aside so you can see for yourself.

Your mother is out there, still wearing his Walmart jacket. He’s in the middle of a fist fight with Kurloz, screaming about him being a whore who needs to keep his hands off other troll’s matesprits. Kankri stands in the doorway of the mobilehive. He looks shaken, a blanket tightly wrapped around him.

“Your Dad looks like he’s had the fuck of his life.” Strider pauses and asks, “The one with the nubby horns is your _Dad_ right?”

You hear the whoop of a police siren and, oh fucking joy, the New Jack City cops are coming down the road, flashing lights and all. New Jack City police cars are the worse fucking travesty of fashion you have ever seen: black and red paintjob with green lights and the logo of NJPD which is some ugly, snarling black dog.

You really hate the NJPD and all the trigger happy tealbloods on the force, the only trolls who are legally allowed to own firearms. Kurloz and your Mom are wrestling on the ground as the cops park. People are coming out of their mobilehives wondering what in fuck is going on. Nepeta is on the lawn, with her mother holding her back.

“Looks like we’re gonna be on COPS again.” says Strider.

“Shit. Of all the fucking times for a fucking _problem_ to start.” You walk to the door, jiggling the old as fuck lock.

“Wait. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know! But I’m not going to stand around while this shit is going down with my family!”

You stop fighting with the lock and just kick the fucking door open. Strider grumbles something but you’re out the door. You don’t care who fucking sees you coming out of his mobilehive. There are more important things going on than the ape and the troll sharing a place.

The only cops that bother coming to the mobilehive park are always trolls. An oliveblood cop has your mother separated from Kurloz. Two shaky looking tealbloods are near Kurloz.

The oliveblood is talking to your mother, “So what happened here sir?”

“That fuckin’ grape is what happened! Takin’ advantage of my matesprit!” your mother snarls, “He knows how mutantbloods get!”

Kurloz is signing but, of course, the cops are ignorant as fuck. They’re looking to Meulin for vocal translation. Nepeta’s stopped struggling if only because Meulin has her by the ear, as if that’ll keep her in check if she goes on a rampage.   

“ _My matesprit and I were inside our mobilehive all evening long with our daughter. They can both confirm this. There are other purplebloods in the neighborhood who could have done it. We are both asleep at this hour.”_

“That fucker coulda just snuck out and snuck back in since you can’t hear for shit, Leijon! And no other purplebloods know when to come over here!”  

Kurloz frowns and signs back. Unlike those ignorant swinefucks, you _do_ know what Kurloz is signing.

— _Like anyone knows your matesprit just lays drunk around the hive all day, fishsucker!_

It doesn’t help that your mother understands the signing too though.

“Oh like you’re any fuckin’ better! _You can’t even hold down a fuckin’ job without snappin’!”_

And you see Kurloz’s eyes go wide and then suddenly narrow. He drops his hands by his sides, showing that time for talking (signing. whatever.) is over. Your mother’s face blanches. He might think he’s tough shit and greased lightning but he’s no match for a purpleblood rage.

Thank the gods above and below for easily frightened cops because they go for the tazers before he can charge. Kurloz gets 26 volts of electricity to the abdomen. He falls to his knees but he’s not out. Not entirely. Meulin looks away, wincing. She wraps a protective arm around Nepeta.

You look at your mother. “What in the hell is going on?”

Your mother stares at you. “What in fuck you think is going on?” He points over your shoulder. “And who the fuck is _he?”_

You look over your shoulder and see that Strider has casually followed you out of his mobilehive; looking in Kurloz’s direction. You hiss at him, “What in _fuck_ do you think you’re—”

And that’s when you hear the loud hiss, like you’ve just stepped on a rattlesnake. Kurloz’s shoulders are tensed. His eyes are shrunken against his amber sclera. He’s definitely riding that fine line between calm regular anger and uncontrollable rage. He stands up, still growling. Apparently that tazer wasn’t set to knock out a purpleblood. Now he’s just pissed as all fuck. The jittery tealblood near him pulls out his gun and aims it.

“ _Sir_! Back away or we are using force!”

Meulin lets go of Nepeta, running over to her matesprit. She may be deaf but she can read the emotions of her husband faster than you could read a picture book. She touches his arm, frantic.

“KURLOZ! KURLOZ, _NO_! CALM DOWN!”

But she’s not his moirail. She’s just his deaf, frightened matesprit who’s probably having flashbacks of all the times he was hauled away and didn’t come back for months at a time. The cops are encroaching on Kurloz, the same way you would on an animal backed into a corner. They’re just _waiting_ for an excuse to fill him with bullets.

“Sir, we are going to have to ask you to come downtown with us for questioning concerning the sexual assault of Kankri Vantas.”

Meulin is trying to read the cop’s lips and she shakes her head frantically. “NO! HE DIDN’T DO IT!”

Your mother isn’t making the situation any less tense. “Well then, who the hell _did_? The bastard blindfolded Kankri!”

Kurloz growls and crosses his arms. He hasn’t cooperated with the NJPD in the past and he’s not going to start now. The tealblood holding the cuffs tries talking down to Meulin, like she’s fucking twelve years old and doesn’t understand that the cops are the “good guys” here.  

“ _Ma’am_ , he was the closest purpleblood hemotype adult and would know about his neighbor’s condition. He already has a past record of petty crimes or he might know the real culprit. It is just a questioning, ma’am, _not_ an arrest.”

“All cops and court are prejudiced against purpleblood! They think they are all violent monsters! They will lock him away and bring him back to that horrible place! _My matesprit is a good man!_ ”

“Ma’am, please calm down!”

Fucktard doesn’t seem to realize Meulin is screaming not because she’s upset but because she’s deaf and can’t even tell she’s yelling. Fucktard’s partner, now named Fucktard No. 2, moves and grabs Meulin by the hand. You know he’s trying to calm her down but this is honestly the worst fucking thing he could be doing.

Why?

The first thing they teach about purplebloods and quadrants is that you do not touch their matesprit.

The second thing they teach about purplebloods and quadrants _is that you do not. Under any fucking circumstance. Touch. Their matesprit._

And Kurloz may be doped up and mute but he’s still a big motherfucker of a purpleblood. And he sees Fucktard No.2 lay his hands on Meulin, who is backing away and trying to tell him how much of a bad idea this is.

“Oh _shit_.” Strider murmurs.

Kurloz grabs Fucktard No. 2 by the back of his shirt, and tosses him away like he’s a gods-damned ragdoll. He collides into Fucktard No. 1 and they both go down on the pavement. And now this situation has gone from ten minutes on COPS to thirty minutes on the evening news. Everybody’s coming out their mobilehives when they hear Fucktards No.1 and No. 2 shout. Captor is coming out of his shitty mobilehive with his brain damaged Mom. The fucking pailhound’s wearing nothing but ragged sweatpants. Terezi and her radical skateboard riding Dad. Vriska and Kanaya, the twin latchkey kids.  

The last thing you want to do is describe to some glossy lipped reporter about the carnage that went down right in front of your mobilehive. You look at your father, who’s still standing in the doorway petrified.

You bolt over to him and grab the front of his old red sweater. “Kankri! Kankri, you useless alcoholic _fuck_! Say something!”

Kankri mumbles, still looking at the ground. You’ve seen your father drunk off his ass before. You’ve seen him as pissed as a dog with its tail trapped under a tire. You’ve never seen him with his eyes wide, staring off into space. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the third cop with his gun on Kurloz. Meulin standing in front of her matesprit so he won’t shoot first and fill out paperwork later.

“SIR! COME ALONG OR I SHOOT!”

“DON’T SHOOT! HE IS ONLY PROTECTING ME!”

And you hear Strider behind you. Thank gods for the chaotic shit going on and no one is fucking wondering what an ape is doing so close to you.

“What’s wrong with your father?” he asks.

You growl, “I don’t fucking _know_! Kankri! _Fucking snap out of it!”_

Your father’s arms spasms. His eyebrow twitches—like you just turned the brass key sticking out of his back enough times for him to sprung back to life like a good tin soldier. He holds his head, wincing; then he starts mumbling. You have to lean in close to hear him over the sound of Kurloz growling and Meulin weeping.

“I just…” he whispers, “…h-he just came in…I didn’t even see him but…I heard him…t-that voice…just like…oh _gods_ …not this…please no, not _this_ …”

Your father curls up tightly, arms wrapped around him—like he’s trying to hide. You can’t even look at him in this condition. You grab his arm and look away; you drag him closer to the cops.

You only know one thing: _voice. Kankri heard a voice._

From a godsdamned mute troll? No fucking way.

The whole neighborhood is out now. You see Aradia’s mother in a shirt, panties, and slippers. Equius covered in grease and Tavros in emerald green shorts that show off where the flesh ends and the metallic legs begin. Feferi and Eridan who probably heard the ruckus all the way from the swampy area. Egbert and his zealot baker mother. the creepy goth girl and her partying Mom you hate talking to. Harley holding a shotgun and wearing a mechanic’s overalls, flanked by a hound.

Of course there’s people you don’t know—faces in a sea of humans, trolls, carapaces, salamanders, crocodiles, iguanas, and turtles. All of you are mobilehive trash with nothing better to do than watch the spectacle. Kurloz looks more pissed as the whole neighborhood is coming out to see them haul the “crazy grape” off to jail again. Meulin is weeping into Nepeta’s shoulder.

Hearing Meulin wracking sobs nearly breaks your heart in two.

The look Nepeta gives the cop is not even pitch. It’s straight up fucking _murderous_. Gamzee is still at the door of their mobilehive, either doped up or pretending to be. He seems to think the fireflies are more interesting than Kurloz being read his rights while cuffs are slapped on him. You know Gamzee was chucklevoodooing you like crazy to strip off your clothes and fuck you hard. He showed in the locker room he was perfectly capable of it. But, why would he—

Strider nudges you from behind.

“ _Karkat_.” he says.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Like you need pushing to do the right fucking thing here. You walk over to the cops, tugging Kankri with you. “HEY IDIOTS! YOU GOT THE WRONG PURPLEBLOOD!”

Your mother has lit up yet another cigarette and snarls, “What in shit are you talkin’ about, boy?”

Ohhhh. _Ohhhh_ , he did fucking _not._ He _knows_ you hate it when you call him “boy”. And weirdly enough, it’s Strider who speaks for you there.    

“Kankri said the culprit was talking, _asshole_.” he pipes in, “Kurloz is a mute.”  

Your mother puffs smoke out of his gills with a low hiss. “And who is this hairy lil milksuckin’ ape shit? Comin’ on over to my hive tellin’ me shit ‘bout my fuckin’ _family_?”

 _“Mom.”_ you growl, “Now is not the fucking time to let a neighbor go to fucking jail over something _he didn’t fucking do!_ ”

The cig bounces on your mother’s bottom lip. He looks to Kankri. “This fuckin’ true or what? _Speak the fuck up, Kankri!_ ”

Your father’s eyes are to the ground.

“…yes.” he whispers, “…he spoke to me the entire time…a low voice…s-saying what a slut I was…the entire time…it happened…”

The cops have Kurloz shoved against the car, Fucktard No. 1 padding him down for weapons and Fucktard No. 2 keeping his gun aimed at his head but Fucktard No. 3 has enough braincells to pay attention to what’s going on.

“He’s a purpleblood. That fits the description considering the…evidence.” Fucktard No. 3 murmurs, “Then that leaves…”

And he doesn’t have to stay it out loud because you’re already looking at Gamzee with his fanged overbite, messy hair, and the glazed over look in his eyes. You know he’s faking it though; that he’s just playing into being another juvenile SAT who can’t help but not focus.

Nepeta is hissing. “Gamzee was inside our trailer! Why does everyone think my family is _dangerous_?”  

 _Says the girl whose father snapped her spine like a godsdamned toothpick without a second thought,_ is the first thought that springs to mind but you’re not stupid enough to say it. Nepeta may be oliveblood but having a _drop_ of the crazy grape in you means you can still go berserk and fuck everyone’s shit up.

The cops are conferring. No one is moving, not even the fucking neighbors, and the sudden stillness doesn’t ease your nerves. You’re tense as a fuck; a tight knot clamps down on your spine. You feel a warm hand on your lower back and jolt. Fuck. Fucking Strider and his stupid warmblood ape hands! You see your mother glare at the both of you; probably wondering what the fuck is going on. Ugh. Your mother’s like the last person you want to talk to about your human not-boyfriend-not-matesprit-not-even-sure-what-the-fuck-is-going-on-here-cause-you-just-been-fucking.

Your father is silent. His eyes are on the cops, who are heading toward Gamzee now—even though Nepeta is growling and looking ready to sink her teeth into one of them. They don’t let Kurloz go you notice. Oh no. Crazy grape senior goes in the car as well even though it’s obvious _he didn’t fucking do it_ because why the fuck not?

Fucktard No. 2 is talking to Gamzee like he’s about to jump off the edge of a cliff, “We are just taking you both in questioning. Just a few questions. Afterwards, you’ll be allowed to return home…”

What Fucktard No. 2 isn’t going to tell them is that until they can prove their innocence, they’ll both be in isolated lockdown in a jail cell somewhere. They’ll want to take Kankri in. Test the evidence and take testimonies from Kankri and your mother. Kurloz couldn’t have been the one who did it. Everyone knows he’s a mute. The only one left is Gamzee but with SAT on his record on top of being a juvenile, they’ll be lenient. After all, the NJPD doesn’t need anymore bad press saying they’re abusive toward the mentally ill.

Both purpleblood trolls are in the car now. Your mother is trying to touch Kankri, who flinches away from him. He’s shaking now.

“Why would a purpleblood break into your trailer to go after your father?” Strider mumbles.

When he says that, cold reality sets into your bones. Kankri isn’t in heat. He hasn’t been in heat for as long as you could remember. But you have. Your pheromones have been soaking every inch of your room. And you don’t have a window lock because you never needed one. You didn’t have anything worth stealing after all.

But Gamzee knows you’re in heat.

Wants to fuck you. Wants to dick around in your head and with your fears while he fucks you. And you’ve been with Dave. 

And that thought seizes its claws in your heart. You stiffen and then you feel adrenaline dumped into your bloodstream. Raw fear. And you’re not sure whether its Gamzee’s chucklevoodoos or knowing you were just across the street from where your father was violated—but your fear is more obvious now than ever was before.

And you get the fuck out of there. You don’t even know where you’re going but there’s no way in fuck you’re staying here right now and dealing with this. You don’t even want to look at Kankri. Strider says something to you but you don’t respond.

You get the hell out of there.

 


	2. nowhere else to go but in a circle

You don’t have anywhere to go though. You can’t go home because you’re fucking scared. You can’t wander around because you’re fucking scared. You only have one place to go and that’s living among the apes. At least the apes won’t be affected by your pheromones and go batshit. At least they won’t…do anything like _that_ to you.

You walk around the neighborhood, observing people in the darkness through the small windows of mobilehives. After an incident like this, people are up and about talking under streetlamps—smoking and gossiping about what will happen next. They glance at you and their tones hush; knowing the son of the victim when they see the haunted look in your eyes. You grimace and walk back. You don’t want the concern or pity of complete strangers.

You go back to the Strider mobilehive and head to the back, not wanting to put up with the stares of complete strangers. You see Strider leaning against the backdoor. Harley is front of him.

“—so you’re just doing this to prove a point?” she grumbles, glaring at Strider.

Strider shrugs and grins, “What can I say? I’m a man who takes his bets seriously.”

“This isn’t about the stupid bet with John and you know it.” Harley sighs, “This is about—”

Strider nudges her because he just noticed you standing there. Harley glances over at you and the look on her face is less than pleased. It’s damn _irritated_ , like Tavros every time he loses a Fidumatch against Vriska. So you glare right the fuck back at her. Strider leans into Harley’s ear and whispers something with a knowing smirk on his face; the same cocky smirk you saw when he told you to ride him like a cowgirl or you weren’t getting off.

Harley slaps him across the face and stomps off back toward her mobilehive. You know humans don’t do caliginous but that’s some serious pitchflirt action going on.

“So. Any reason you bolted earlier?” Strider asks casually, as if the red mark on his cheek had been there all evening.

You don’t say anything. You walk past him and head inside of the mobilehive. It’s quiet, making you wonder where Strider’s parents could be at this hour, but that’s not your concern right now. You’re running on instinct. You want to get to a nice, dark, safe place. You dash to his bedroom and scoot under Strider’s bed. The underside of Strider’s bed is a warzone, filled with old textbooks, crumbled papers, pencils, and oh gods—the dust and cobwebs are seriously ridiculous. What in hell, Strider? Would it kill you to fucking vacuum once in your stupid hipster life? You growl and push the trash aside and from under the bed. You hear footsteps and you scoot further under the bed.

“…Karkat?”

You grumble and push away a crate, filled with sneakers in various states of age and decay. You push a second crate containing burned and blank CDS so you can stretch out your legs.

“The fuck are you doing?”

You look toward the line of sight available to you under the bed. Strider kneels down and lies on the ground so he can actually see you bunched up under his bed.  

“Any reason you’re acting like a mole all of a sudden?”

Honestly? You’re not sure. It’s safe under here. Gamzee may be SAT but threatening a human would have his torso riddled with bullets before the press even bothered showing up. And it wouldn’t make the news either. He won’t come over here while Strider is around and even then he’d have to look for you.

If he doesn’t smell you out first because you’re still in heat and fear makes it worse. You try not to think about it.

“It’s safe under here…” you mumble.

“You can’t stay under my bed. For one thing, that’s where I put most of my shit. Secondly, there’s the little matter of explaining to Bro why I have a troll under my bed, and I don’t think he’s going to go for the ‘it followed me home’ story.”

You make a face. “I won’t stay long, asshole. I’m just…” You curl into a tight little ball and shut your eyes, The floor has a thin musty carpet, “…I can’t go over there right now, okay? I’ll leave in the morning.”

“It’s nearly two in the morning...”  

There’s silence for a few minutes but you hear Strider walking around. The floor creaks again as he turns to the storm.

“Here.” he says.

You look up from your curled little ball and see Strider is pushing a blanket and pillow under the bed.

“What are you doing?” you mumble, half awake.

“It’s cold as fuck down there. No way I’m hauling your ass to the clinic if you catch the flu.” Strider says; like this is no big deal at all.

You grab the pillow and blanket. The blanket is dark grey and itchy as all hell but its warm and more comfortable than the floor. You place the pillow under your head and wrap the blanket tighter around you. You’re still tense, thinking of your father standing in the doorway of your mobilehive. Looking so…shocked. So empty.

You shudder and cover your head with the blanket.

“Thanks.” you mutter into the pillow.

Strider moves from the floor and onto his bed. The bed sags a little and you inch lower to the ground. The mattress coils squeak.  

“Are you ever going back home after this?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” you mumble. “I’m in heat. It’s not…I’ll just be here for a while. I’ll leave in the morning. When things are…calmer.”

Strider murmurs something and then shifts around on the bed. “Well…” he says but this is followed by silence, as if he’s processing something. You hear the hum of his husktop fan working above you. Probably resting it on the bed. “Kankri is your…mother right?”

“Father.” you grunt.

“Father? Isn’t he a mutantblood?”

“Yeah. Cronus is my mother because Dualscar wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to cheat him out of an heir because of his…preferences at the time.”

Strider’s fingers are flying over the keys. You doubt he’s working on a finals essay; probably writing rhyme schemes about how you were nearly raped or maintaining one or more of his ironic Trollbook accounts.

“Why—”

“It’s not something we like to talk about.”

“At least Kankri can’t get knocked up from wild night, right?”

You don’t respond. The bed creaks as Strider sit up a little (or you assume that’s what he’s doing).

“What?”

You take a deep breath. “…I don’t know if he’s on pills or not.”

“Shit, seriously? I thought everyone from here to Park Avenue was on pills. Why would you _ever_ get off pills? You guys don’t have menopause or anything like that, so you can get knocked up anytime.”

You make a face, even though you know Strider can’t see it. “When you don’t have insurance, you get vouchers before you have to start paying out of pocket. Eventually, it adds up when you have three family members on pills. I think he was splitting his with Mom’s.”

“Why would—”

“My parents don’t have sex. Ever. They just had me and the seashit and that’s it.”  

“Isn’t your grandfather going to be pissed if your Dad has a kid that isn’t Cronus’s? Whatisname. Eridan’s always talking big shit about him whenever he can.”

“Dualscar; and I don’t know. According to the old barnacle, a warmblood is nothing more than a receptacle for dumping genetic material into. Most likely he’ll be more pissed it’s not Cronus’s or simply not give a shit.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and get welfare for the wriggler.”

“I’d rather not think about it...”

Because having a wriggler for a paycheck is the ultimate low to you. It’s some shit Aradia’s mother would pull. Not something you’re really fond of copying and you doubt Kankri is going to be fond of it either. You tuck yourself more into your blanket. Ignoring the outside world. Pretending you’re a grub against just transforming inside of your cocoon. Not worried about a thing in the world and letting nature take place.

You offer a silent pray to the Glass Goddess—She Who Cradles the Hopeful Dreaming Dead, She Who Breathes Dreambubbles, and She of the Fair and Kindly Folk—that she will watch over you as you sleep and guard you from the nightmares that sprout from the mouth of the Eldritch Goddess.


	3. dreaming dead

She does not favor you, because once again you are your weary grandfather. You walk the long streets of downtown New Jack City, with aching bare feet. Your ears are humming with near deafness. You hear the blaring alarm and factory works shuffling out into the streets; wearing red overalls streaked with oil and dust. You see trolls of varying hemocastses, faces ashen with dirt and hefting shovels and alien machinery. There are other aliens among them—the hairy apes, the carapaced ones, and the small scaled ones. Down the paved road, another group of workers approach—this time wearing violet. Your eyes squint as you observe this place. It’s filled with flashing lights and flickering signs written in a language you don’t recognize. Even the Alternia here is different; the letters have been altered and the grammar erroneous.    

The noise and light of this wretched hivecluster spreading across the landscape of this alien world is horrific to you. Almost offensive.

Already, you miss your brutal, dead homeworld.

The red workers cluster on the street, ignoring you entirely. Some of the ape aliens workers are walking away, saying their goodbyes in-between sleepy yawns. Other workers have begun passing around and smoking fat cigarillos stinking of burning grass in the company of trolls, like close comrades.

A highblood puffs on a cigarillo. He passes it between a cerulean wearing a blinking collar, a tattoo covered yellowblood, and a rustblood. The smell burns your nose, along with the other scents in this massive hivecluster—rotting food, factory chemicals leaking into the air, clouds of exhaust from overhead flying transportation vehicles in heavy traffic.

The highblood and rustblood talk back and forth.

“What we do now, cuz? Gonna be long time fore can head back to da Aniline.” asks the highblood. 

“Up an’ hit da Ill Beats ‘til sun be up an’ risen, sons?” the rustblood offers to the group.

The cerulean shakes his head. “Shit, cuz. Bugga only got so much boon to da pocket yanno.”

“Half a buzz to sermon, cuz. Coulda sit down an’ let em collar men up an’ preach an’ fill o’selvas good on da offerins.” suggests the yellowblood.  

“Shit, son. Bugga can up an’ dig that sly thinkin’...” answers the rustblood. She looks over at you; face screwed up like she’s just walked into barkbeast excrement, “Who be dis ol’ grubfucka?”

The highblood grins. “He be yo old man.”

This earns him a slap from the rustblood. “Shut yo grubfuckin’ trap, grape!”

Your breath hitches when you see the slap. The highblood doesn’t even grimace. It’s not as if she could hurt him. She’s a rustblood and he’s high enough on the hemocaste to rip her in half and walk off without a word of warning. You move forward, ready to intervene. You may be against violence but there’s nothing against helping a fellow lowblood in need.

The highblood just laughs and plants a very pitch kiss on the rustblood’s lips.

“Oh, ya clawin’ bitch. Slappin’ like ya on Troll Maury wit five grub daddies an’ no grub support. Gonna take ya back to da Aniline an’ pitchfuck ya til ya cum twice. Fuck ya on da porch in fronta everyone.”

The rustblood snickers. “Prime, yo stupid fucka. Know we ain’t got no porch.”

And that’s when you realize it: the playful attitudes. The horrible mangling of language and grammar. These are not adults. These are youths; young adults whose lives are still ahead of them and here they are in a factory doing the work of adults and…and _pailing_ _underage_ if you are accurately deciphering their ugly vernacular.

Ugh. This alien planet and its _perversions_. On the way here you passed a merchandising emporium offering motion pictures of a pailnographic nature and all sorts of… _things_ displayed in the windows. Thankfully you hurried past the emporium and the scantily dressed trolls soliciting their illicit “services” to you from the street corner.

The yellowblood walks over to you. He’s nothing like the Psionic. His eyes aren’t the mutated red-blue orbs although he has the duplicated horns. His face is marked with designs in ink. He jabs a claw in your direction. “Shit, ya old fang! We ain’t got no boons to give to ya. Oughta go up an’ beggin’ at da church if ya be wantin’ da _good_ shit.”

You frown and shake your head, “…I am not very good in the presence of clowns, mirth, or those who preach the death of lowbloods, hemocastism, or force the rigidity of quadrants. I will politely decline your offer to aid me in my time of need, if that is indeed what you are offering me, young one.”

The yellowblood cackles. There are metal braces clamped onto his fang crowded mouth. “Oh shit son! Must be a preachin’ sorta bugga. What up an’ happen? Poor bugga got his church up an’ run outta its district?” You open your mouth to respond but the yellowblood turns his head to his comrades, “Shit, my buggas! Man’s a preachin’ sorta fellow! Thinks we be down with da clown or some shit!”

“I am not—”

“Da clown?” The cerulean gapes, “Shit! Dat be some old schoolin’ sorta grubfuck.”

“Only da psychofucks be down wit da clown like dat.” the highblood murmurs, “Me an’ ev’rybody I know be baptized in da name of da Signless an’ da Dodec an’ da Octet.”

“Wait. Excuse me, but did you say—”

“Awwww! Ya be into dat ol’ pagan bullshit? Dat ain’t da real church. No real religion.” interrupts the rustblood, “Latter Day Terrorsaints be where it at. None o’ dat pagan bullshit. Straight up Signless preachin’ da good word.”

“Ya fulla shit, girl. Up an’ changin’ gospels is what lands a fella in some serious shit; end up in the pits o’ the earth with the Eldritch One.”

“Yer fuckin’ _stupid_ is what ya is.”

“ _Excuse me!”_ you snarl, getting a little base in your voice.

The rustblood groans, “Ya still here? _We ain’t got boons, ya fuckin’ hobo!_ ”

 _“I have no idea what this ‘hobo’ term means, but my title is informally known as the Signless!”_ you growl, raising your voice, _“Now what is this church you speak of based upon my personage?”_

The teenagers stare at you…and then burst out laughing. The rustblood nearly keels over.

“ _Oh shit son!_ We gotta real ‘Signless’ right here! _Ha!_ ” she cackles, “What kinda dope ya be smokin’ or droppin’ or shootin’ dat got ya thinkin’ dat nonfuck? Son oughta be passin’ an’ sellin’ dat good mothafuck!  _Shit_! Best laugh I got all day! _F-fuck!_ Mutant bugga outa be a fuckin’ comedian wit da laughs I be gettin’! Son oughta be at Def Jam Comedy sorta shit!”

The rustblood chortles and turns to the others, “Got mothafuckin’ munchies, my cuzzes. Wanna hit Betty’s Fixins fer some chicken an’ waffles?”

The highblood yawns. “Sure as shit, my rusty pitchsis. Bein’ two in the fuckin’ AM and I’m cravin’ some homecookin’.”   

“Eh, where’d preacher man go…? Shit was gettin’ hee- _fuckin’_ -sterical.” the yellowblood wonders because you’ve already stomped away in irritation.

You hate the youth.

You’ve _always_ hated the youth. Even back on Alternia, the youth never listened to you: too busy being comfortable in their own carefree lives to realize the plight of others around them, even if it was directly in front of them. You would be pitch for the latest generation if you could do so.

You hope you never meet your self-absorbed descendants.

You wake up—the unwanted descendant—to your iHusk vibrating in your jacket pocket. You sit up too fast and your head collides with the underside of the matress. You mumble a curse and flop back onto your pillow. Strider snorts and the bed creaks as he turns over in his sleep. You grab your iHusk and see your Trollichum app is flashing.

You snarl. Who’s this fucking douchebag?

 

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 2:00!--

CA: kar

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 3:10!--

CA: kar you there

CA: kar come on noww

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 4:31!--

CA: this aint funny

CA: come on kar

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 5:43!--

CA: karkat

CA: blood an haze karkat

CA: talk to me already

CA: im your brother for fucks sake

CG: OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE, ERIDAN! IT’S FIVE IN THE GODSDAMNED MORNING! WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE DOOMED FUCKING MAGE COULD YOU POSSIBLE WANT FROM ME? I ALREADY HATE TALKING TO A WHINY SEASHIT LIKE YOU. IT’S BAD ENOUGH YOU DECIDE TO TALK LIKE THAT CRUSTY OLD BARNACLE YOU CLING TO LIKE SOME WEIRD DOUBLE BARNACLE ON THE ASS OF AN ANCIENT, UGLY HUMPBACKED WHALE.

CG: AND THE GIVEN NAME OF THAT FUCKING HUMPBACKED WHALE IS “SHITTY ANNOYING WIZARD OBSESSED RELATIVES THAT KARKAT HAS TO PUT UP WITH EVERY. GODSDAMNED. DAY.” AND ITS SURNAME NAME IS “RELATIVES THAT MANGLE SEADWELLER ACCENTS BECAUSE THEY’RE NOT FROM FUCKING ALTERNIA AND NEVER WILL BE AN ALTERNIAN SO MIGHT AS WELL GET THE FUCK OVER IT ALREADY AND STOP BEING SUCH A POSER TO PLEASE THEIR SHITTY GRANDFATHERS”.

CG: WHAT IN SHIT DO YOU WANT YOU LITTLE WANDSUCKING SNIVELING SACK OF IGUANA DROPPINGS?

CA: kar

CA: you knoww that aint vvery traditionalist of you

CA: sayin that shit to your owwn brother

CA: kin is kin kar

CG: YOU’VE NEVER BEEN TO FUCKING CHURCH. GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSARONI.

CA: i havve been to church for your info

CA: wwas evven baptised

CA: im alternian traditionalist noww

CG: WHAT DO YOU FUCKING WANT, ERIDAN?! GOD! YOU’RE GETTING AS FUCKING LONG WINDED AS DAD!

CA: wwhale that’s wwhy im messagin you

CA: moms talkin to me about dad an

CA: an wwhat happened

CG: …FUCK.

CG: FINE.

CG: GIVE ME THE NEWS.

CA: wwell

CA: you knoww

CA: he wwas raped

CG: I ALREADY KNOW THAT, FUCKSHIT. I MEAN AFTER THAT.

CA: it wwas definitely a purpleblood wwho did it

CA: an kurloz wwas negative so it wwasnt him

CG: YEAH, I FUCKING KNEW THAT TOO. EVERYBODY KNEW THAT. THE COPS ARE FUCKING RETARDED. WHAT ABOUT GAMZEE?

CA: they didnt test him

CG: WHAT.

CG: WHAT DO YOU FUCKING MEAN THEY DIDN’T TEST HIM?!

CA: dad said they gavve him a drug test an he still had sopor in his system

CA: wwoulda fucked up the genetic test they said

CA: an wwith the sat evven if they tested positive he was high

CA: they cant hold him responsible for his actions wwhen hes

CA: in that condition yknoww

CG: HE’S THE ONLY ONE WHO COULD HAVE FUCKING DONE IT! SO THEY BLAME KURLOZ AND LET THAT GRUBFUCKER GO SCOT FREE?! DID THEY AT LEAST PUT HIM ON DRUG PROBATION OR…OR FUCKING SOMETHING?!

CA: kar you knoww sat aint responsible for their actions

CA: they got fits and shit

CA: they dont knoww wwhere they are an their bodys on automatic pilot

CA: they don’t remember anyfin they do

CG: I KNOW HOW FUCKING SOPORIN GRUBS FUNCTION, ERIDAN! I’M FUCKING SAYING THAT HE’S FAKING THAT SHIT OR MAYBE IT’S NOT AS BAD AS PEOPLE SAY IT IS AND HE’S ACTUALLY HIGH FUNCTIONING! HE AIN’T A NORMAL FUCKING PURPLEBLOOD! HE’S A FUCKING PSIONIC! HE COULD HAVE USED THE CHUCKLEVOODOOS ON THE COPS OR THE DOCTOR OR DICKED AROUND WITH TEST TO GET OFF SCOT FREE!

CA: kar

CA: evverybody knowws chucklevvoodoos aint real

CA: youre just stressed out bad ovver this cause youre a mutantblood an this happened to dad

CA: its upsettin wwhat happened to dad but you gotta deal wwith reality

CG: OH YEAH CAUSE YOU ALWAYS DEAL WITH REALITY SO FUCKING WELL. DUALSCAR TOLD YOU FOR YEARS YOU WERE A WIZARD AND A PRINCE AND WHATEVER THE FUCK HE FELT LIKE TELLING YOU AND YOU GOBBLED THAT SHIT UP. I BROKE YOUR FUCKING WAND WHEN I GOT SICK OF YOUR SHIT IN MIDDLE SCHOOL AND THANK THE GODS I DID BECAUSE YOU WERE JUST FUCKING CHUM IN THE WATER TO VRISKA AND KANAYA.

CA: kar just cause you did that dont mean i dont believve in magic

CA: or in gods an things like that

CA: wwhy you gotta badmouth grandpa like that

CA: he aint evver done you no harm

CG: ERIDAN, WAKE THE FUCK UP ALREADY. IT’S FUCKING PATHETIC HOW MUCH OF A SHELTERED LITTLE BOY YOU ARE.

CG: NEITHER OF US WOULD BE HERE IF DUALSCAR HADN’T GOTTEN MOM AND DAD LIQUORED LIKE FUCK AND FORCED THEM TO GO AT IT FOR HOURS BECAUSE HE FUCKING WANTED A DESCENDANT SO BADLY. YOU KNOW MOM USED TO BE KING OF THE PLANET OF THE APES BEFORE WE CAME AROUND. DUALSCAR IS A DISGUSTING OLD MAN AND HE IS JUST AS DEPRAVED AS THE REST OF THOSE FIRST GENERATION ASSHOLES, IF NOT MORE SO.

CG: AND YOU KNOW WHAT TWISTS MY STOMACH THE MOST? THE FACT THAT DUALSCAR HAS FUCKING BANK HE’S SITTING ON AND HE WON’T EVEN SPARE A GODSDAMNED BOON TO HELP OUT HIS SON, HIS SON’S MATESPRIT, OR HIS OTHER FUCKING GRANDSON.

CG: WHERE WAS DUALSCAR WHEN I NEARLY DIED OF BOVINIC-SWINE FLU?

CG: WHERE WAS HE WHEN WE WERE EATING RAMEN NOODLES FOR A WHOLE FUCKING WEEK WHEN KANKRI LOST HIS JOB?

CG: WHERE WAS HE WHEN WE COULDN’T AFFORD THE RENT AND NEARLY HAD TO LIVE IN THOSE GODSFORSAKEN MOTELS?

CG: WHERE WAS DUALSCAR TO PROTECT ME FROM KANKRI LIKE HE FUCKING PROTECTED YOU AND SHELTERED YOU ALL THESE FUCKING YEARS, ERIDAN?

CA: kar

CA: kar you gotta just

CA: let shit go

CG: I DON’T SEE WHY I FUCKING SHOULD.

CG: DUALSCAR’S GIVEN ME ZERO FUCKING REASON TO LET ANYTHING FUCKING GO BECAUSE HE’S AN ASSHOLE. HE’S AN ASSHOLE AND I’LL DANCE ON HIS SHITTY GRAVE WHEN HE SHRIVELS UP AND DIES LIKE A GODSDAMNED ROACH THAT’S BEEN SPRAYED WITH RAID ENOUGH FUCKING TIMES IT CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE AND FINALLY CROAKS.

CG: THERE? YOU GOT THAT, ERIDAN?

CG: I HATE YOUR PRECIOUS FUCKING GRANDFATHER. YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY TO THAT, YOU SCARF FUCKING SEASHIT?

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] is now offline!--

CG: YEAH THAT’S WHAT I FUCKING THOUGHT, YOU FUCKING COWARD.

 

You glare at the screen and honestly hope Eridan is crying. You hope he’s running over to Dualscar and whimpering about how you’re a mean big brother and you don’t appreciate his attempts to act “brotherly” toward him. You don’t give a shit. They both can fuck off and die for all you care.

* * *

You fall back asleep, and the Glass Goddesss has finally decided to pay attention to your previous prayer because you’re not visited by anymore disturbing dreams of your grandfather. You wake up an hour later with a slight pain in your bladder. You grunt and from underneath the bed, eyes half opened. No sign of any purplebloods. Strider is still sleeping on bed. You hobble in direction of the bathroom. Your stomach growls; irritated that you didn’t get your usual midnight snack.

Still half-awake, you open the door with a loud yawn.

There are two naked men sitting in the old tub. One is a tall blonde covered in a patchwork of scars. He scrubs the hair of a large, muscular, hairy man with broad shoulders. They are both encrusted in layers of mud and dead plants, as if they’d been swimming through the swamp for the past week.

“ _Dirk_! No need to be so rough! It’s just a blooming wash!”

“I’m not letting you turn the trailer into low tide at the pier, English. Just stay still.” the blonde grumbles, “Signless, you got _bugs_ in here from when we got _married_.”  

“You make it sound like I was nothing but a little skint when we first met and you shagged me into civility, like when that Jane bird met Troll Tarzan.”

“I’m ninety percent sure that’s not how the story goes.” The blonde looks at you and then looks away, as if the sight of a troll standing at the bathroom doorway is nothing to gawk at. “Jake, we have company. Say hello.”

The larger man laughs and waves to you. “Blimey! My Mum would have me bent over her knee for being so rude to a guest! I’m Jake. Jake English. Pleased to meet you. You must be Dave’s bloke! Karkitten, right?”

You grimace. The blonde chuckles and bends down, kissing Jake on the cheek. “It’s Karkat _, koibito_. He lives across from us.”

English smirks at the blonde. “Alright, _aijin._ ” That earns English a rough tug of the hair. “Ow! Hey! It was a joke!”

“I am not a _woman_.” the blonde growls.

English smirks. He runs his hand along the blonde’s knee, smirking. “Now, you’re pulling my hair out of anger I’m blooming sure, but you also do it when we’re boffing. And we’re already naked, so I have to _wonder_ …”

The blonde grins and keeps a firm grip on the tangled black hair. He whispers into his ear, “What do you think… _aijin?”_

Okay, fuck your bladder. You do not want to see two apes humping, no matter how hot it may be. No. Not hot. Weird. _Weird_ is definitely the word you were thinking of.

You immediately leave the bathroom. Dave stumbles out of his room, wearing just red boxers. Dripping with sweat. Still wearing fucking shades. Gods, you want to jump him. No. Concentrate on emptying bladder first. Consider humping Dave later.  

“Guess Bro and Jake are back…” he mumbles.   

“Do you ever _not_ wear the shades, Strider?” you grunt.

“Need ‘em.” Dave yawns. “What’s wrong with you? You’re fidgeting like crazy.”

“Have to go to the bathroom…” you growl. Sometimes you really hate living in fucking small mobilehives with one bathroom per unit.

“Oh, with those two around? Not going to happen. Rigged up a temporary toilet in the closet over there. Just use it and don’t tell the DD.”

“Why would you even have that?”

“You ever have to deal with someone with a kidney stone for a whole week? It was either invent a separate secret bathroom or start pissing all over the backyard.”

“Sure as hell not going to do _that._ ” you grunt, hurrying in direction of the closet.

“Can you cook breakfast or anything?”

“I’m not saying that long! I’m pissing and then I’m leaving!”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m serious!” You open the closet door and look at the sight. You grimace but you honestly don’t know what you expected: it’s a bucket. The wall of the closet has been ripped out, showing the piping and wiring inside. Someone’s jury-rigged it so a pipe leads into the bucket. There is a hole in the bottom but you can’t tell where that leads to and you’d rather not think about it.

You’re seriously wondering if this is worse or better than pissing in the woods on a scale of dignity. “I feel like a complete redneck doing this.” you murmur.   

“You could wait thirty or more minutes until they’re done fucking.” the tone in Strider’s voice makes it sound like he’s minutes away from laughing. “Or piss outside. I’m sure Harley won’t mind. She’s probably seen plenty of troll wang around here.”

“I’d rather not take the fucking chance.” You shut the door behind you.

You feel 10% more of an ape redneck pissing into a bucket without the excuse of alcohol.   

* * *

There’s nothing like having to navigate around four other people to remind you how fucking small a mobilehive is and or how awkward it to notice all the little fucking things about the people you’re trying to move around. You notice the scars along Dirk’s palm and fingers that look suspiciously like old burns. The nicks and scrapes along his long arms and legs that look like something had been trying to rip him to pieces using only teeth and claws. How Dirk’s build resembles Dave’s—muscular with long limbs, like a bizarre macho swan.

English has scars and caluses along his knuckles and fingers. Thick safety goggles are strapped to his face. He’s constantly spouting slang you can’t understand. Calling you his “candycorn chum”. One moment he’s being fucked by Dirk in the bathtub, the next he’s insisting you’re too skinny and forcing you to sit on the couch and wait for him to make you a proper breakfast. You sit on the living room couch next door to the kitchen, feeling like an intruder.

“Dave, how much blood pudding do you want?” Jake shouts from the kitchen.

“Just taking toast and AJ.” Strider shouts from the bathroom.

“Bacon?”

“Toast and AJ.”

“Grilled tomato and fried mushrooms?”

“Jake. Toast. _AJ_.”

“Black pudding’s done.”

“You’re not listening are you?” You watch Strider walk into the kitchen, as if he’s finally accepted the terrible fate of eating English’s cooking.

“How can you expect to past math if you never actually eat anything besides bread, juice, and maybe a handful of cereal?”

“Striders are environmentally friendly machines. We consume little and function for a very long time before we need to make a pit stop. I’m like Bro with his rice and seaweed.”   

“I would have fish but the fish in this shouldn’t be eaten by anyone.” Dirk speaks up from the kitchen. He is leaning against the wall, sipping green tea.

You peer over at them from the couch. This is nothing like morning in your mobilehive. Usually at this hour, your mother is already gone or rushing out the door because his alarm clock didn’t go off in time. Kankri would be sleeping off last night’s alcoholic binge. You’d skip breakfast since you got meal vouchers at school. Your family runs on its own personal schedules and it’s only a special occasion if you share a meal together.

It makes you feel more alien, like you’ve stumbled into a Fifth Age sitcom on the Wayback Channel. The stay-at-hive mother preparing a large nutritious breakfast as the father goes off to work. The kids are cleaned up and ready for a day of school with no bullies and a pristine building. Everyone is comfortably suburban, upper middle class, and loving it. The neighborhood is clean and there’s no crime, drugs, or cops breaking down people’s doors.

You always hated those fucking shows, even though your mother loves them to death and would record them on the DVR all the time.

You remember your first act of rebellion was to erase all his episodes of Troll Happy Days and Leave It To The Young Troll Who Is Nicknamed After A Bucktoothed Semi-Aquatic Rodent.  

“Karkat!”

You sit up. “Uh…”

“Now remind me again,” said English, still frying away, “are you trolls lactose intolerant?”

“Um,” you murmur, “I don’t…”  

Strider walks from the kitchen, holding a blackened sausage wrapped in a paper towel. He bends down, grabs the front of your shirt, and kisses you. You stare at him, stunned.

“ _Mmph!_ Strider! What in—”

He lets you go just as quickly, heading to the door. “Gotta catch the bus. See you after school, kitten.”

“I am not a kitten!” Strider smirks at you before exiting the mobilehive. You growl; the last thing you want is for Strider to start comparing you to a stupid fuzzball animal.

“Karkat?” asks English.  

“I can have cheese and not get sick.” you respond, “My parents can’t though. Something about us not really being mammals so we never developed a tolerance for dairy or some shit.”

“Then you’re getting cheddar with your poached eggs!”

“Okay…”

You honestly don’t know how to respond to this. You also don’t know how you feel sitting at the backyard picnic table, shoulder to shoulder with a large hairy man and sitting across from you is Dirk. Dave’s older brother. You stare at Dirk’s face, trying to see the familial resemblance and wondering what their parents looked like. (Or what Dave might look like once he gets older)

The idea of human race is a complicated one for you to comprehend. Hemotypism is a problem but only among conservative (or batshit) gangs like the Sons of Alternia or the Capricorn Brotherhood. You’re not sure what race Jake, Dirk, or Dave are, if partly because you don’t really understand race very well being, well, _a different fucking species_. Dave’s skin is pale with red eyes and whitened hair, but you don’t think that normal since Dirk’s skin is rather… _brownish_? You’re not sure if that’s a tan or if that’s his real skin color. He’s wearing a Fiduspawn T-shirt and blue-jeans now, an orange trucker hat on his head.  

Things are quiet. The mobilehive park’s pleasant in the early morning. The sky is a creamy blue and there’s no sign of late last night’s confrontation across the street. Crows caw overhead. Harley’s dogs wander around, seeing if they can beg for a spare meal elsewhere. A skinny hound whimpers at Jake, expecting a treat. If you lived further down the road, closer to Lalonde, there would be stray cats running about

Jake destroys that silence within three minutes:

“So, have you and Dave boffed yet?”

You sputter on the mug of black coffee. “W-what?”

“You know! _Boffed_!” Jake clarifies; as if the word ‘boff’ means anything to you.

“He’s asking if you’ve fucked.” Dirk adds, which is considerably more helpful.

You make a face. “I don’t—”

Jake laughs, elbowing you in the ribs. “Now, now! We’re all _men_ here! There’s nothing about us that we hide! We all know how much Dave loves to play a bit of how’s your father with Harley when he gets the chance.”

“That—”

“Is also another Young British euphemism for sex, though I’m pretty sure by modern standards it an antiquated one.” Dirk adds.

You feel the blood rush to your face. You hate talking about sex. You hate talking about sex with Strider even when he’s bulge-deep inside of you. You’re definitely not going to talk about sex with Strider’s brother and his…you’re not a hundred percent sure on who this Jake person is exactly.

“So.” you say, hoping to a less awkward as fuck topic, “You are. Dirk’s…boyfriend?”

“ _Husband_!” Jake hold up his bacon greased hands. Orange bands are tattooed on both ring fingers. You notice Dirk has identical tattoos in green on his ring fingers. “Been hitched for four years now.”

“It’ll be five next month.”

Jake’s bushy eyebrows waggle a bit. “That’s going to be a right-o celebration. I plan on surprising you with the perfect anniversary gift.”

“Its wood and daisies for the fifth.”

“Oh I plan on giving you plenty of wood, Dirk. It _is_ our anniversary.”

Oh gods. This is like Seventh Age porno movie levels of terrible listening to them. No wonder Dave was in a hurry to get the hell out. You wish you could bolt too but you were raised not to waste food. You gobble down bacon, eggs, black pudding, and the grilled mushrooms while you tune in and out of the conversation.

“We should stop by and visit Roxy; feels like it’s been ages since we saw her and Janey.” said Jake.   

Dirk frowns, “They have their lives and we have ours. Just because we grew up together doesn’t mean we have to pester them every single minute.”

“Dirk, we shouldn’t be afraid of talking with our old chums! It doesn’t have to even be very long either!”

Dirk stands up.

“I’m full.” He says in that ‘not going to talk about this anymore’ tone you’re all too familiar with. After all, you grew up in a family that would rather be shot in the foot than talk about their feelings.

Dirk walks back into the trailer. Jake sighs and looks at you.

“Looks like it’s just you and me for the day, chap! Having a bit of adventuring out and about the neighborhood.” Jake chuckles.

“Doing what exactly?” you asked.

“Oh, all sorts of things! Finish your breakfast!”

Jake’s vagueness about that does not set your mind at ease.  


End file.
